Arena (9 page)

I gnashed my teeth together.
Actually, I need you to stand in place of the bag, please.
I stopped pummeling and glanced down at my feet. “The coaches are finished for the day.”

“That's no excuse.”

“Are you offering then?”

“No.”

“You complain we don't work as a team,” I said, raising my voice as he
walked away, “and as soon as there's a chance to help, you go off by yourself. Why don't you shove—”

I swallowed the rest of my sentence when he abruptly turned back. He braced his right shoulder behind the bag, giving himself enough leeway to peer around the edge. Most of him behind the bag, and his face right next to it. Looks like my target would improve after all.

He nodded at me. “Go.”

I pounded the bag, picturing him instead.
Bam.
Solid blow to the face.
Bam.
Swift hit to the ribs. Oh, don't cry now. Here, just let me . . .
Bam.

“Your feet are still too close together,” he said, interrupting the fantasy. “Square them with your shoulders.”

I paused and squared my feet, then returned to punching, focusing solely on the bag. At every punch rumbling up my arm. At every crunch of my knuckles against the leather canvas and the sand within. At the piercing brown eyes watching my chest with every movement.

“What are you looking at?” I demanded. I really was going to punch him in the eye.

Rooke took a step toward me, still staring. “Is that a taijitu?”

“What?”

I glanced down myself. My necklace hung over my shirt again. Since when did an American know the traditional name for a yin yang?

I tucked the pendant inside my shirt and disregarded it with a wave of my hand. “Typical Asian symbol. They want me to play it up whenever I can. You know, for the cameras.”

“And the cameras are here now?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

I stared back, unwavering. Seconds passed before I answered. “You never know.”

“Funny, because it's also a symbol of someone who appreciates Taoism and the teachings of Lao Tzu.”

I clenched my jaw to stop it from dropping. Where had he learned that? So few people made the connection. So few Americans, at least. I kept a straight face.

“It's just a necklace,” I said.

“Your hair is up, you've got no makeup on, and you're dressed head to toe in training gear. But you leave the necklace on for show?”

Rooke stared down at me, his eyes searching my face as if looking for my soul. He wouldn't find anything. I'd already sold it to Clarence.

“Look,” I began, “whatever you think it means, it doesn't. Not anymore.”

“Why wear it then?”

“I told you. It's part of my image, all right? I forgot I even had it on.”

He scoffed. “I don't believe that.”

“Well, then . . . it's a good thing I don't care what you believe.”

Was this guy going to question everything I said? Bile burned at the back of my throat. God, he made me want to puke.

“You really think your image is that important?” he asked.

“Of course it is.”

How could he even ask that?

He shook his head. “You won't catch me buying into that bullshit.”

“You have to.”

“Not a chance.”

“You signed a contract, didn't you?”

He frowned.

“I guess it's bullshit only up to a certain point.” I cleared my throat. “Or, should I say, a certain
price
.” He shot me a look. “What? You gonna act like you didn't know this is what it's like being a pro? You're about to become Clarence's new poster boy. Speaking of, we have a photo shoot tomorrow.
Pro Gamer Weekly
, the cover.”

With a circulation of over twenty million,
Pro Gamer Weekly
was the top gamer magazine in the world. Along with reviews of at-home games, its primary focus was the life and times of virtual pro gamers.

It was owned, in part, by the VGL.

Rooke blinked, unimpressed. I made a sweeping motion with my hand toward the door, as if to shoo him away. “You'd better go get your beauty sleep.”

“How did you know?”

“What? That you need beauty sleep?”

His jaw set. Hard. “About the photo shoot?”

I opened my mouth, and—to my surprise—a nonsarcastic answer trickled out. “Did Clarence issue you a tablet when you first got here?”

“Yeah. I had to trade it for my cell.”

Of course he did, along with his firstborn child.

“Your tablet will be updated every morning with the team's itinerary, usually a few days in advance. Expect this week to be a little chaotic, though.”

Was I just helpful to him? I'd have to watch that.

He nodded. “Yeah, thanks.” His expression softened a little then. “Look, for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have questioned your authority, not in front of the team.”

Huh. An apology. Okay, not bad.

I kept a straight face.

“That's all right, as long as it doesn't happen again.”

His gaze flicked down to the necklace again. Or at least to where the chain disappeared under my training top. “Is it honestly just a symbol?”

He met my eyes again, and for once, his own were brimming with curiosity instead of ice.

“Yes,” I told him. “It's a symbol. That's it.”

He looked a bit disappointed, but seemed to accept it. “Wanna go again?” He reached for the bag, then suddenly doubled over, as if he'd just been punched in the gut.

“You okay?” I asked.

After a minute, he shook himself and straightened up. “I'm fine.”

“You don't look—”

He turned on his heel and walked away without another word. Okay, sure. I was done talking. That's it. I had no doubt now this guy had an injury. He was hiding it, because if anyone found out, he'd be kicked off the team. And I couldn't let that happen. We were already a wreck and couldn't afford to lose and replace another player.

I let it go.

As he walked away, I shifted my weight from foot to foot. Should I thank him? He'd helped me, too, after all. Oh, just make the effort. It won't be that bad.

“Hey. Thanks for the spot.”

He didn't look back as he waved me off—which if I wasn't sure had included his whole hand, I would have thought he'd just flipped me off. The door slammed shut behind him. The bang from the door meeting its frame echoed through the room like a ripple in a pond, but brought with it a tidal wave of anger.

I stood there, blinking. Don't let it bother you.

Don't. Just don't.

I returned to the bag and pummeled the life out of it, so hard I was sure the innards would spill out on the training-room floor. What. An. Asshole.

Eventually, I tired and hit the showers. Back at my bunk, the hair dryer whirled in my ear as strands of my hair danced like black streamers in the bathroom mirror. This was the only place in my bunk where everything wasn't built into the walls. Toilet, shower, and counter with a sink. Still all metal and glass, just like the rest of the living quarters.

As I set the dryer down on the counter, something crinkled beneath it. A small, silver package. The pills the shrink had given me. It had been almost a week since I saw the doc, and several of the package's tiny, metallic bubbles were crushed. How many more nights would I need them to sleep? I shrugged. Couldn't hurt. She'd prescribed them, after all. The package scrunched under my thumbs as another pill popped out. I took it and crawled into bed.

“Lights off.”

The room went black. A smile curled through my lips as the darkness enveloped me in its comforting quiet. I sighed, drifting away toward sleep until a weight shifted in the bed beside me and ice-cold fingers wrapped around my elbow.

I screamed.

I catapulted out of bed, slapping my arm as if a spider had just run across it. Shudders shook my spine so hard, I became a hunchback. Nathan wasn't there. I knew that. Still, my gaze fixed on a spot on the floor and wouldn't even nudge toward the bed, as if stuck against an invisible wall.

Good time for a walk, yeah?

I paced around the hallways of the facility in an endless circle until the
blinking red light of a surveillance camera caught my eye. Clarence's voice echoed in my head. What are you doing up? I can't have you looking tired. Not for the press. What if they got a picture of you with those baggy eyes?

I returned to my bunk and stood looking at myself in the mirror. God, I looked terrible. Pale complexion, sunken cheeks, dark eyes. I fiddled with the package of pills and popped out another. Small, white, and round, it was just like a mint. Or a piece of gum. I brought my hand to my mouth and halted. Was it smart to take two in one night?

Whatever. It was just for tonight. For the sake of the team.

For the show.

I swallowed the pill and went back to bed. As I nestled against the pillow and chills started jolting through me again, I squashed them with thoughts of sand, blood, and glory. We'd made it to the second round and now had five on the team to carry us through the tournament. Scratch that. Four on the team and one giant asshole, but it was enough to play the game. For as long as we would last.

I shook my head. I shouldn't think like that. Their futures were on the line. My future was on the line. If we could learn to work as a team, or at least get along, we had a chance. I could still be the first female captain in history to win a championship. I rolled over in bed, closed my eyes, and sank into a vision of my team, working together, winning the tournament. Hell, maybe even having a little fun along the way. I couldn't help but smile.

Soon, sleep's prying fingers pulled me down to slumber. But instead of the tournaments, I dreamt about my new least favorite person in the world.

O
kay, the shrink never said anything about side effects.

I ran my thumb over the fine print.
Drowsiness. Dizziness. Unusual dreams.
Whatever. I tossed the package down on the bathroom counter and rubbed my eyes, sore and heavy. Maybe it wasn't from the pills. Maybe it was because I'd spent most of the night dreaming about Rooke, hacking off his limbs and listening to him scream. Wait, wasn't
unusual dreams
on the list? And they prescribe this stuff to people they were concerned about losing a grip on reality. Ah, there was my old friend again. Irony.

In the mirror, my baggy eyes and pale face phased between blurry and clear. God, I really was tired.

I took a shower, hoping the drowsiness would pour down the drain with the water. It did. Somewhat. Of all the technology in the world, why hadn't they figured out how to insert caffeine directly into my veins? As I rubbed dry with the towel, the heaviness lifted. Ah, better. But my optimism was quickly dashed when dressing became a new form of acrobatics.

“Damn it,” I muttered at the tag sticking out the front of my training shirt. After flipping the shirt around in enough directions, I managed to dress myself above the skill of a third grader and left my bunk.

As my bunk door slid open, a tablet-sized object fell in and clunked
against my foot. I knelt to examine my inanimate foe, and my jaw dropped to the floor. Seriously. You could have sunk billiard balls in my mouth.

The object in question was a hardcover with a jacket, and weighed heavy in my hand, unlike the typical featherweight of a tablet. Holy shit. It was a book. A real book made of paper, and not that synthetic crap either. It was cut-down-a-tree, piss-off-the-nature-lovers real paper.

I lifted the cover, thumbing the hard surface between my fingers, and ran a hand over the first sheet. It felt smooth and a little cool. Glancing around the hall to make sure no one was watching, I brought the book to my nose, closed my eyes, and inhaled deeply. Wood. I should have figured that's what it would smell like.

A note was stuck to the cover.

Thought you'd benefit from this.

No name. Nothing else. Still, I knew who it was from. Only Rooke had the arrogance to assume he'd know what I'd benefit from. But where on Earth did he get a book? Forget that, where did he get this note? I peeled it off and pressed my finger against the back edge. Sticky. A sticky note. A book. What decade was this guy from?

I glanced over the cover though I recognized the title before I even finished reading it.
Tao Te Ching
. The Taoist bible, or as close as it got to one. In the bathroom, I fished an eyeliner pencil out of my makeup bag and scribbled a reply on a tissue. Really, who keeps paper on hand?

I leaned the book against Rooke's door with the tissue tucked in the cover.

Read it when I was twelve. I'm sure it's the same.

Even though I wasn't hungry, my legs directed me to the cafeteria. Routine. In the kitchen, I grabbed a mug emblazoned with our team logo, filled it to the brim with coffee, and proceeded to the eating area. Hannah and Lily sat beside each other in the middle of a long table. Hannah's mouth moved nonstop, and she motioned with her hands while Lily nodded
and doodled on her tablet-turned-digital-sketchpad. Derek and Rooke sat at the far end of the table, deep in conversation. Wow, the almighty had joined us for a meal. Well, joined Derek at least.

I sat across from the girls.

“Morning,” Hannah chimed, her chirpy tone jabbing needles into my skull. Lily nodded, her signal for
good morning
. I grumbled a response over my coffee mug and hooked my thumb toward the end of the table where Derek and Rooke sat alone.

“Is it boys versus girls now?”

Hannah glanced at them. “Must be. I'm glad they're getting along.”

“Speak for yourself.”

Her eyes widened and her face lit up like a fourteen-year-old girl's about to hear the latest gossip. “Ooooh. Problem with the new guy?”

I glanced down the table at him, then leaned toward her and lowered my voice. “He's injured.”

“What?” Hannah asked, mirroring my pose. Even Lily dropped her tablet and leaned in.

“After you guys left the training room last night, he and I talked for a bit. Out of nowhere, he doubled over like he was in pain, then he practically ran out of the room.”

Hannah waved me off. “He probably had a muscle spasm or something. You're overreacting.”

“I'm telling you,” I insisted. “It's not the first time I've noticed. He's trying to hide it, but there's definitely something going on with him.”

“Okay, so what are you going to do about it?”

I shrugged. “Nothing. I don't think I should do anything about it. If I bring it to anyone's attention, Clarence might kick him off the team, and we can't afford to replace another player now. We're barely holding it together as it is.”

“True. Hey, where's your breakfast?” Hannah nodded at her own tray. Dry cereal, yogurt, and an apple. Lily's tray mirrored hers.

I shook my head. “Nah. I'm not hungry.”

“You're not supposed to stray from this diet.” Hannah flicked a finger against the tray's edge so it clanked on the table for emphasis.

“You sound like Clarence.”

She frowned. “It's not a bad thing to eat right.”

“If coffee is a bad thing”—I took a long sip—“then call me evil.”

The liquid poured down my throat, warm and soothing. Around me, the lights brightened, and the needles in my brain dulled. Unlike those damn pills, coffee had amazing side effects.

“I thought Chinese people only drank tea,” Hannah teased with a grin.

“I was raised in America. I inherited all of your bad habits.”

She laughed and looked down the table at Rooke. “You can see why Clarence chose him.”

“Sure, the guy has skill, but he's got a lot to learn about being on a team.”

“Skill?” Hannah leaned toward me again and lowered her voice. “You understand how Clarence chooses his team, right? And why we're the only one in the tournament with more women than men? It's not just about talent. We're beautiful.”

I studied her solemn expression, waiting for it to crack back into a smile. I waved her off.

“Pffft.”

“I'm serious,” she continued, taking a sip from her cup. “We look good, so sponsors want us to represent their products. Women want to be us. Men want to watch. We get paid the most, the best trainers, the best equipment. So we win. It's all about marketing.”

“It's all about
money
,” Lily corrected.

Hannah speared her spoon toward Rooke. “You're seriously going to tell me he's not cute.”

I glanced at him, trying to be casual, and shrugged. Hannah scoffed and shook her head.

“You. Are. Hopeless,” she said, emphasizing each word. She reached for her tablet on the table and started scrolling through it as she stuffed a spoonful of flakes into her mouth.

“What are you doing?” I asked, nodding at the screen.

“Shopping. New weapons came out today.” She tapped a finger against the tablet. It projected out a six-foot-long war axe. Hannah stood, grasped the projected image, and rotated it in her hands.

“What do you think?” she asked. “Too butch?”

I studied her. “At your height, I think you could pull it off.”

She tapped the projection off, sat back at the table, and continued flipping through the images on her tablet. “There's some you might like if you'd ever put that Dao sword down.”

“No Dao sword? I don't think that would go over well.”

She nodded. “Right. Your image. God, what would people expect if you were completely Chinese?”

“A hand fan that shoots poison darts?”

We laughed, even Lily, as she hunched over her own tablet, lightly scrolling her fingertip across it in a looped pattern.

I nodded toward her. “Whatcha drawing?”

Hannah snatched it and held it up for her. An outline of soft petals and a long stem graced the screen. While the flower wasn't quite finished, if I hadn't known better, I'd think it was a half-erased professional work of art.

“Wow, Lil,” I said. “I didn't know you had that kind of talent.”

Lily shrugged and snagged the tablet back from Hannah. Modesty turned her cheeks a dusty shade of pink.

Hannah waved it off. “She can draw all kinds of things. Give her an image-editing program, and she can do anything.”

“Then what are you doing in the RAGE tournaments?” I asked her.

Lily glanced up at me and shrugged again. “Better exercise.”

We all laughed again, though we all knew the real reason. Most graphic designers didn't make seven-figure salaries. Most pro gamers did. And those that won a championship could bring in eight figures easy.

We chitchatted through the rest of breakfast, the girls with their cereal and fruit, me with my coffee, and the boys at the end of the table. After weights, workouts, and laps around the track, we were piled into a black SUV and shipped off to the photo shoot.

Minutes into the ride, I slunk against the window, watching L.A. slide past, a supercity that stretched over 750 square miles. Metal skyscrapers pierced the sky while digital billboards and ads filled every free inch of space. Buy this. Upgrade that. You need it now.

Street level was an endless line of glass windows and minus-zero-size mannequins wearing the latest trends. Like a looping video, or a glitch stuck on repeat. Glass. Plastic. People. Plastic. All perfect in every way. If cities were clothing, then Los Angeles was that spandex shapewear women squeeze themselves into. You know, body hose that gives the illusion of no fat and an ideal figure.

The fashion director at the photo shoot was the very embodiment of L.A., with airbrushed makeup, a too-thin nose, and a shiny sheen to her skin, like she was wearing one of those clear, plastic face masks, or she'd just had enough surgery to give the illusion of one.

“You have a half-decent chest for someone of your descent,” she said as she buttoned up my blouse. “Too bad you're not taller.”

I gritted my teeth together. I also have a killer right hook. Wanna see?

Hands in pockets. Put your hands in your pockets.

I jammed my fingertips into the pockets of my jeans. At least, as deep as I could wedge them into the skintight fabric.

The fashion director took a step back, tapping a finger against her lips as her gaze weaved its way up my form. When she reached my eyes, she looked at them without really looking at me. More like she was outlining the shape with her own gaze. She smiled. “No wonder you're good at video games.”

I went cold. Despite the numbness in my fingers from being wedged in my pants, they still twitched with the desire to punch her in the face for real. Sure, I was part Asian. I was also good at video games. Why couldn't those two things ever be separate? Why couldn't I be good because of dedication, hard work, and talent? But nooo. Somehow, the shape of my eyes alone made me better at pushing buttons on a controller.

With a flick of her wrist, the fashion director undid the top two buttons so the edges of my bra peeked over the sheer, cream-colored fabric, as if it wasn't see-through already. Then she waved me off, walked over to Hannah, and peered up at her.

“Now,
you
I can work with,” she said, pushing her breasts up until they practically fell out of her dress. Hannah glanced at me with a curled lip and an eyebrow to match. I left her to fend for herself.

On the white backdrop of the photo area, I found the male counterparts of my team. Derek leaned against a piece of equipment, shirt open, chatting up some girl with a clipboard. He smiled, and not-so-absentmindedly twisted his torso so his abs flexed. The girl blushed and looked down at her feet.

Rooke stood alone against the white canvas, like a model ready to be painted with his piercing gaze and jaw set hard enough to complement his equally hard body. Forget chiseled from stone. The gods had carved this one in their own likeness. Sure, skill mattered more when battling foes, digital or otherwise. Looks mattered more when . . . well, anything. Digital or otherwise.

They'd dressed him the same as Derek, open dress shirt and pants hanging low enough to reveal that V men get around their hips. Oh-so-defined, and oh-so-lickable.

Lickable?

“Did they forget half your clothes?” I asked him. Rooke looked me up and down.

“Speak for yourself.”

My teeth ground together. Hands. Pockets. Now.

Why were these pants so damn tight?

Hannah stumbled out of the dressing room and made her way over to me in four-inch heels, waddling like a newborn deer. At nearly five-foot-nine, I doubted she'd ever worn heels that high. She was all legs and breasts in a dress that barely covered the space between. How something indecent didn't spill out was beyond me.

“I don't know what just happened,” she said to me, running a hand over her midsection.

“Just be thankful you're not a model.”

She glanced around at the white backdrop, cameras, and our nearly naked teammates. “How would that be different?”

I grasped her hand. “It's all right. When we get out of here, we'll go clubbing, okay?”

She nodded and let out a slow breath.

Lily joined us last in pigtails, oversized fur-lined boots, and a mini pleated skirt, mimicking the style of her battle gear. The guys with schoolgirl fetishes would jizz themselves.

The photographer took several photos of the whole group in different poses. I could see the headlines now. Meet the team. No, it's really them. Never mind the makeup, perfect lighting, and endless editing. They're real. We swear.

The camera flashed until I went blind. We could have been there for hours. Maybe days. How did models do it?

“Break,” the photographer called, waving his hand around like he was signaling a helicopter. Everyone scattered in slow motion, like they'd been stuck in the same position for too long.